Wacousta (6 page)

There was something so peculiarly solemn and impressive in the manner in which the unhappy man now expressed himself, that a feeling of the utmost awe crept into the bosoms of the surrounding throng; and more than one veteran of the grenadiers, the company to which Halloway belonged, was heard to relieve his chest of the long pent-up sigh that struggled for release.

“Enough, prisoner,” rejoined the Governor; “on this condition do I grant your request; but recollect,–your disclosure ensures no hope of pardon, unless, indeed, you have the fullest proof to offer in your defence. Do you perfectly understand me?”

“I do,” replied the soldier firmly; and again he placed his cap on his head, and retired a step or two back among the guard.

“Mr. Lawson, let the prisoner be removed, and conducted to one of the private cells. Who is the subaltern of the guard?”

“Ensign Fortescue,” was the answer.

“Then let Ensign Fortescue keep the key of the cell himself. Tell him, moreover, I shall hold him individually responsible for his charge.”

Once more the prisoner was marched out of the area; and, as the clanking sound of his chains became gradually fainter in the distance, the same voice that had before interrupted the proceedings, pronounced a “God be praised!–God be praised!” with such melody of sorrow in its intonations that no one could listen to it unmoved. Both officers and men
were more or less affected, and all hoped–they scarcely knew why or what–but all hoped something favourable would occur to save the life of the brave and unhappy Frank Halloway.

Of the first interruption by the wife of the prisoner the Governor had taken no notice; but on this repetition of the expression of her feelings he briefly summoned, in the absence of the Adjutant, the sergeant-major of the regiment to his side.

“Sergeant-major Bletson, I desire that, in future, on all occasions of this kind, the women of the regiment may be kept out of the way. Look to it, sir!”

The sergeant-major, who had stood erect as his own halbert, which he held before him in a saluting position, during this brief admonition of his colonel, acknowledged, by a certain air of deferential respect and dropping of the eyes, unaccompanied by speech of any kind, that he felt the reproof, and would, in future, take care to avoid all similar cause for complaint. He then stalked stiffly away, and resumed, in a few hasty strides, his position in rear of the troops.

“Hard-hearted man!” pursued the same voice: “if my prayers of gratitude to Heaven give offence, may the hour never come when my lips shall pronounce their bitterest curse upon your severity!”

There was something so painfully wild–so solemnly prophetic–in these sounds of sorrow as they fell faintly upon the ear, and especially under the extraordinary circumstances of the night, that they might have been taken for the warnings of some supernatural agency. During their utterance, not even the breathing of human life was to be heard in the ranks. In the next instant, however, Sergeant-major Bletson was seen repairing, with long and hasty strides, to the barrack whence
the voice proceeded, and the interruption was heard no more.

Meanwhile the officers, who had been summoned from the ranks for the purpose of forming the court-martial, still lingered in the centre of the square, apparently waiting for the order of their superior, before they should resume their respective stations. As the quick and comprehensive glance of Colonel de Haldimar now embraced the group, he at once became sensible of the absence of one of the seniors, all of whom he had desired should be selected for the court-martial.

“Mr. Lawson,” he remarked, somewhat sternly, as the Adjutant now returned from delivering over his prisoner to Ensign Fortescue, “I thought I understood from your report the officers were all present!”

“I believe, sir, my report will be found perfectly correct,” returned the Adjutant, in a tone which, without being disrespectful, marked his offended sense of the implication.

“And Lieutenant Murphy–”

“Is here, sir,” said the Adjutant, pointing to a couple of files of the guard, who were bearing a heavy burden, and following into the square. “Lieutenant Murphy,” he pursued, “has been shot on the ramparts; and I have, as directed by Captain Blessington, caused the body to be brought here, that I may receive your orders respecting the interment.” As he spoke, he removed a long military grey cloak, which completely enshrouded the corpse, and disclosed, by the light of the still brightly flaming torches of the gunners, the features of the unfortunate Murphy.

“How did he meet his death?” enquired the governor; without, however, manifesting the slightest surprise, or appearing at all moved at the discovery.

“By a rifle shot fired from the common, near the old bomb proof,” observed Captain Blessington, as the adjutant
looked to him, for the particular explanation he could not render himself.

“Ah! this reminds me,” pursued the austere commandant,–“there was a shot fired also from the ramparts. By whom, and at what?”

“By me, sir,” said Lieutenant Valletort, coming forward from the ranks, “and at what I conceived to be an Indian, lurking as a spy upon the common.”

“Then, Lieutenant Sir Everard Valletort, no repetition of these firings, if you please; and let it be borne in mind by all, that although, from the peculiar nature of the service in which we are engaged, I so far depart from the established regulations of the army as to permit my officers to arm themselves with rifles, they are to be used only as occasion may require in the hour of conflict, and not for the purpose of throwing a whole garrison into alarm by trials of skill and dexterity upon shadows at this unseasonable hour.”

“I was not aware, sir,” returned Sir Everard proudly, and secretly galled at being thus addressed before the men, “it could be deemed a military crime to destroy an enemy at whatever hour he might present himself, and especially on such an occasion as the present. As for my firing at a shadow, those who heard the yell that followed the second shot, can determine that it came from no shadow, but from a fierce and vindictive enemy. The cry denoted even something more than the ordinary defiance of an Indian: it seemed to express a fiendish sentiment of personal triumph and revenge.”

The governor started involuntarily. “Do you imagine, Sir Everard Valletort, the aim of your rifle was true–that you hit him?”

This question was asked so hurriedly, and in a tone so different from that in which he had hitherto spoken, that the
officers around simultaneously raised their eyes to those of their colonel with an expression of undissembled surprise. He observed it, and instantly resumed his habitual sternness of look and manner.

“I rather fear not, sir,” replied Sir Everard, who had principally remarked the emotion; “but may I hope (and this was said with emphasis), in the evident disappointment you experience at my want of success, my offence may be overlooked?”

The governor fixed his penetrating eyes on the speaker, as if he would have read his inmost mind; and then calmly, and even impressively, observed,–

“Sir Everard Valletort, I do overlook the offence, and hope you may as easily forgive yourself. It were well, however, that your indiscretion, which can only find its excuse in your being so young an officer, had not been altogether without some good result. Had you killed or disabled the–the savage, there might have been a decent palliative offered; but what must be your feelings, sir, when you reflect, the death of yon officer,” and he pointed to the corpse of the unhappy Murphy, “is, in a great degree, attributable to yourself? Had you not provoked the anger of the savage, and given a direction to his aim by the impotent and wanton discharge of your own rifle, this accident would never have happened.”

This severe reproving of an officer, who had acted from the most praiseworthy of motives, and who could not possibly have anticipated the unfortunate catastrophe that had occurred, was considered especially harsh and unkind by every one present; and a low and almost inaudible murmur passed through the company to which Sir Everard was attached. For a minute or two that officer also appeared deeply pained, not more from the reproof itself than from the new light in which the observation of his chief had taught him to view, for the first
time, the causes that had led to the fall of Murphy. Finding, however, that the governor had no further remark to address to him, he once more returned to his station in the ranks.

“Mr. Lawson,” resumed the commandant, turning to the adjutant, “let this victim be carried to the spot on which he fell, and there interred. I know no better grave for a soldier than beneath the sod that has been moistened with his blood. Recollect,” he continued, as the adjutant once more led the party out of the area,–“no firing, Mr. Lawson. The duty must be silently performed, and without the risk of provoking a forest of arrows, or a shower of bullets from the savages. Major Blackwater,” he pursued, as soon as the corpse had been removed, “let the men pile their arms even as they now stand, and remain ready to fall in at a minute’s notice. Should any thing extraordinary happen before the morning, you will, of course, apprise me.” He then strode out of the area with the same haughty and measured step that had characterised his entrance.

“Our colonel does not appear to be in one of his most amiable moods to-night,” observed Captain Blessington, as the officers, after having disposed of their respective companies, now proceeded along the ramparts to assist at the last funeral offices of their unhappy associate. “He was disposed to be severe, and must have put you, in some measure, out of conceit with your favourite rifle, Valletort.”

“True,” rejoined the Baronet, who had already rallied from the momentary depression of his spirits, “he hit me devilish hard, I confess, and was disposed to display more of the commanding officer than quite suits my ideas of the service. His words were as caustic as his looks; and could both have pierced me to the quick, there was no inclination on his part wanting. By my soul I could…but I forgive him. He is the
father of my friend: and for that reason will I chew the cud of my mortification, nor suffer, if possible, a sense of his unkindness to rankle at my heart. At all events, Blessington, my mind is made up, and resign or exchange I certainly shall the instant I can find a decent loop-hole to creep out of.”

Sir Everard fancied the ear of his captain was alone listening to these expressions of his feeling, or in all probability he would not have uttered them. As he concluded the last sentence, however, he felt his arm gently grasped by one who walked a pace or two silently in their rear. He turned, and recognised Charles de Haldimar.

“I am sure, Valletort, you will believe how much pained I have been at the severity of my father; but, indeed, there was nothing personally offensive intended. Blessington can tell you as well as myself it is his manner altogether. Nay, that although he is the first in seniority after Blackwater, the governor treats him with the same distance and hauteur he would use towards the youngest ensign in the service. Such are the effects of his long military habits, and his ideas of the absolutism of command. Am I not right, Blessington?”

“Quite right, Charles. Sir Everard may satisfy himself his is no solitary instance of the stern severity of your father. Still, I confess, notwithstanding the rigidity of manner which he seems, on all occasions, to think so indispensable to the maintenance of authority in a commanding officer, I never knew him so inclined to find fault as he is to-night.”

“Perhaps,” observed Valletort, good humouredly, “his conscience is rather restless; and he is willing to get rid of it and his spleen together. I would wager my rifle against the worthless scalp of the rascal I fired at to-night, that this same stranger, whose asserted appearance has called us from our comfortable beds, is but the creation of his disturbed dreams.
Indeed, how is it possible any thing formed of flesh and blood could have escaped us with the vigilant watch that has been kept on the ramparts? The old gentleman certainly had that illusion strongly impressed on my mind when he so sapiently spoke of my firing at a shadow.”

“But the gate,” interrupted Charles de Haldimar, with something of mild reproach in his tones,–“you forget, Valletort, the gate was found unlocked, and that my brother is missing.
He
, at least, was flesh and blood, as you say, and yet he has disappeared. What more probable, therefore, than that this stranger is at once the cause and the agent of his abduction?”

“Impossible, Charles,” observed Captain Blessington; “Frederick was in the midst of the guard. How, therefore, could he be conveyed away without the alarm being given? Numbers only could have succeeded in so desperate an enterprise; and yet there is no evidence, or even suspicion, of more than one individual having been here.”

“It is a singular affair altogether,” returned Sir Everard, musingly. “Of two things, however, I am satisfied. The first is, that the stranger, whoever he may be, and if he really has been here, is no Indian; the second, that he is personally known to the governor, who has been, or I mistake much, more alarmed at his individual presence than if Ponteac and his whole band had suddenly broken in upon us. Did you remark his emotion, when I dwelt on the peculiar character of personal triumph and revenge which the cry of the lurking villain outside seemed to express? and did you notice the eagerness with which he enquired if I thought I had hit him? Depend upon it, there is more in all this than is dreamt of in our philosophy.”

“And it was your undisguised perception of that emotion,” remarked Captain Blessington, “that drew down his severity upon your own head. It was, however, too palpable not
to be noticed by all; and I dare say conjecture is as busily and as vaguely at work among our companions as it is with us. The clue to the mystery, in a great degree, now dwells with Frank Halloway; and to him we must look for its elucidation. His disclosure will be one, I apprehend, full of ignominy to himself, but of the highest interest and importance to us all. And yet I know not how to believe the man the traitor he appears.”

“Did you remark that last harrowing exclamation of his wife?” observed Charles de Haldimar, in a tone of unspeakable melancholy. “How fearfully prophetic it sounded in my ears. I know not how it is,” he pursued, “but I wish I had not heard those sounds; for since that moment I have had a sad strange presentiment of evil at my heart. Heaven grant my poor brother may make his appearance, as I still trust he will, at the hour Halloway seems to expect, for if not, the latter most assuredly dies. I know my father well; and, if convicted by a court martial, no human power can alter the destiny that awaits Frank Halloway.”